


A Human Touch

by notmymainaccount



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th Century, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, First of a lot of things actually, M/M, Other, Period Typical Attitudes, The Hundred Guineas Club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 23:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmymainaccount/pseuds/notmymainaccount
Summary: The Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, is having a good nineteenth century. He has a beautiful bookshop, and spends his free time in a discreet gentleman's club that serves rather excellent champagne. But when his friendship with a fellow member of the Hundred Guineas Club turns into something else, how will Aziraphale react?Or, the one where Aziraphale is living his best gay Victorian life, despite not being, strictly speaking, gay. Or Victorian.





	A Human Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading. This story came about from me wanting to write a story about Aziraphale, without Crowley. I'll likely do one with Crowley sans Aziraphale at some point, too.
> 
> So just for context, this is set somewhere in the 1880s, around the time Aziraphale learned the Gavotte. I've written it under the assumption that the "discreet gentleman's club" is the Hundred Guineas Club, as indicated by Neil Gaiman on Tumblr. There are a few notes about the Hundred Guineas Club in the notes at the end, which you can read now if you like for some context, or at the end if you prefer.
> 
> This story should be compatible with both the show and book canons. I've imagined that Crowley did sleep through the entire 19th century, only getting up in 1832 to use the lavatory, and again in 1862 to ask for the holy water. He's asleep through this whole story.

The Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, current facilitator of pleasant life on earth (a title he had given himself, and was rather proud of) was having a good evening. He had managed to get in more blessings than usual that day, from helping an elderly woman who had been struggling with her shopping, to ensuring that a young baby would have a long and happy life. It was the small miracles that could be the most rewarding.

Now, sitting in a discreet club in the heart of Marylebone, Aziraphale sipped from a champagne flute contentedly, looking around the moderately busy room. The night was still young. Aziraphale knew that in a few hours the room would be packed, but he intended to have departed long before then. For now, he watched the men sitting at various tables around the room, in various suit and dresses, engaged in conversation and laughter with their peers. A piano tinkled in the corner, the light music washing over the room. One young man stood up from his table, holding a hand out to his companion, who arose also. They walked over to the dance floor (or at least, a small part of the room that had been cleared of tables) and held each other tightly, swaying side to side in time to the music.

Aziraphale swallowed the last of his drink, and leaned his head back contentedly, allowing the atmosphere of the club to wash over him. He had been coming to the Hundred Guineas Club for some time now; he rather enjoyed the music, and they did have the most wonderful champagne on offer. Although perhaps the most appealing part of the club was the love. Populated as it was by people who otherwise had to hide their love for each other, for many the club was the one place where they were allowed to show their true selves, and as a result the air was thick with the sensation of love. For a being of love such as Aziraphale, it was akin to soaking in a warm, relaxing bath. With bubbles.

Aziraphale’s train of thought was interrupted by a polite cough at his elbow. He opened his eyes to see a waiter standing by his table, a bottle of champagne in his hands. “Another glass, Mr Fell?” he offered.

“Yes, please, Elizabeth,” Aziraphale smiled, holding his glass out for a refill. Elizabeth topped it up quickly and expertly, and was about to leave when Aziraphale added, “Could you leave the bottle? I’m expecting someone.”

“Of course, Mr Fell,” Elizabeth bowed, and was gone, leaving the mostly-full bottle behind.

Aziraphale raised the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply, before taking a small sip. He rolled the champagne around in his mouth, savouring the taste before tipping his head back and allowing the liquid to slip down his throat.

Yes, it was the small things that could be the most rewarding.

A moment later, he heard, “Fell?” from across the table, and looked over hopefully. He was a little disappointed when he saw it was not who he had been waiting for, but covered it up with a smile. “Colonel Brook,” he said. “It has been a long time.”

“That it has,” agreed the colonel, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing an army uniform and a beard of impressive proportions. He indicated a seat. “May I?”

“By all means,” Aziraphale said, sitting up a little and moving his champagne bottle closer.

The colonel did not sit down immediately, first holding out a seat for his companion, then taking one himself.

Aziraphale looked over the colonel’s companion curiously. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, holding out a hand across the table. This was not strictly true; Aziraphale had met this person before, as Lieutenant James Fisher of the Royal Fusiliers. Now however, instead of a uniform, they were wearing a deep blue evening dress, set off with a very fetching silver necklace. Aziraphale had never met this persona.

They smiled, and reached out a hand also. “Valerie Fisher,” she said, with a smile.

“Miss Fisher, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale said, and brought her hand to his mouth for a light kiss. She blushed a little, retracting her hand.

“What brings you to London, Colonel?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Well,” Colonel Brook began, and Aziraphale knew that he was in for a long story. The colonel was a perfectly pleasant fellow, although he did have a tendency to drag explanations out a bit.

Aziraphale was nodding and smiling along politely, finishing his champagne, when movement across the room caught his eye. He glanced across to see a man entering the room, tall, thin, with dark auburn hair that contrasted with his pale skin. He scanned the room until he saw Aziraphale, when his face relaxed into a smile. He raised a hand in greeting, and began to make his way over weaving through the tables.

Aziraphale half-watched him approach, trying not to smile. He was still half-paying attention to the colonel’s story, which showed no sign of ending any time soon. He was currently lamenting the state of the roads leading to London, or perhaps Cornwall. Or both. Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

A wicked thought crossed his mind, and he surreptitiously slid one hand under the table and snapped his fingers. The piano music, previously quiet and tinkling, grew louder, and the pianist switched to a faster song. Valerie’s face lit up, and she placed a hand on Colonel Brook’s arm. “Oh, Stephen,” she said. “Could we dance?”

“…and potholes coming out of your—what, now?” Colonel Brook turned and looked at Valerie’s imploring eyes, and softened. “Very well.” He looked back at Aziraphale. “Please excuse us, Mr Fell.”

“By all means,” Aziraphale smiled, and the couple got up and left the table. He felt a twinge of guilt, but reminded himself that after all, he had done a lot of miracles that day. Surely they would more than balance any dubious acts out. Besides, Valerie had looked so happy when the colonel had agreed.

Before he could analyse it any further, the man who had been making his way across the room slid into the chair next to Aziraphale’s, a wide grin on his face. “Mr Fell. I had hoped to see you here.” There was a light Scottish lilt to his voice.

“I did say that I would be here tonight, Mr Johnson,” Aziraphale reminded him with a smile. He raised the bottle of champagne. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please,” Mr Johnson said, leaning back into his chair.

William Johnson was in his mid-twenties, with sharp cheekbones and a warm smile. He was a student at King’s College London, where he was onto his third degree, funded by his father’s business in Edinburgh. He was currently studying English Literature, and although he did not know it, he had the honour of being the second reason that Aziraphale frequented the Hundred Guineas Club. They had met in this very room several months earlier, and had bonded over their mutual interest in literature. Aziraphale did not have many friends in the nineteenth century. He was proud to call William one of them.

Tonight, William was wearing a dark suit that suited him very well, Aziraphale thought as he raised his hand to flag down a waiter. Another glass was produced quickly, and another drink was poured, of which William immediately took a deep sip. He closed his eyes, savouring the taste, and then tilted his head back and swallowed slowly. Aziraphale watched him, a small smile playing on his lips.

William opened his eyes again and looked at Aziraphale. “Exquisite,” he said simply.

“I’m glad you agree,” Aziraphale said. “How was your day?”

“Predictable,” William said. “I have been trying to write an essay all afternoon, although I have been having some trouble.”

“Trouble with what, particularly?”

“All of it,” William laughed. “I love reading literature, but I detest writing about it. How can that be?”

Aziraphale considered the question. “Perhaps,” he said, “when you are reading a text for the first time, you are experiencing it all anew. The thoughts, the questions, the emotions, are all fresh. But when you try to explain them, the experience grows stale. You lose the investment you had in the literature the first time around.”

William nodded thoughtfully. “I do believe you may be correct there. Although,” he added, “I have not yet tired of hearing you read poetry.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “that is another experience entirely. Poetry is intended to be heard, not read on a page. It is a performance as much as it is a piece of literature.” He took a sip of champagne, looking over the rim of the glass.

William was watching him with interest. “So a poem needs at least two people to be enjoyed,” he said. “One to perform, and one to experience.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you know, Mr Fell,” William said slowly, “I may have an idea for my essay.”

“Do tell.”

“Exactly what you have just said. That poetry must be shared in order to be properly appreciated.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, pleased. He took a hasty drink of champagne to hide the smile growing on his face. He loved being able to assist William with his studies.

William smiled, and raised his glass. “To sharing poetry,” he said.

“To sharing poetry,” Aziraphale agreed, and brought their glasses together with a _clink_.

They stayed at the table for nearly another hour, until they had finished the bottle of champagne, and the room began to grow crowded. After noticing several people meaningfully eyeing their seats, waiting for them to leave, Aziraphale suggested to William that they walk back to his bookshop.

This was not out of the ordinary; it had become their routine over the past few months to begin with a few drinks at the Hundred Guineas, then move to the bookshop for a nightcap, and some more involved discussion around books. Aziraphale would usually read to William from the latest first edition he had managed to acquire, or from a large book of poetry he kept close to his desk for this exact reason. They would often talk into the early hours of the morning, when William would go home to sleep, and Aziraphale would pretend to do the same.

Tonight, however, was different. As they walked to the bookshop, William seemed quieter than usual. He kept his eyes on the footpath as they walked the familiar streets.

“Is anything the matter, my dear boy?” Aziraphale enquired as they neared the shop.

William looked up at him, seeming to remember where he was, and smiled. “Nothing at all, Mr Fell. Nothing at all.”

Aziraphale chose to stick to poetry that night, bearing their previous conversation in mind. He pulled out a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets, selecting a few of his favourites to share with William. He poured them each a glass of red wine, and began to read.

An hour later, William was leaning into the cushions of Aziraphale’s sofa, eyes half-closed. “Could you read the one about comfort and despair again?” he requested. When he and Aziraphale were alone, he allowed his Scottish accent to come out in full force, instead of tamping it down as he did when they were in the club.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed for only a moment, then cleared as he recalled the poem. “Sonnet one hundred and forty-four, yes,” he said, flipping to the correct page. He cleared his throat, and began to recite.

_“Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, _  
_Which like two spirits do suggest me still_  
_ The better angel is a man right fair,_  
_ The worser spirit, a woman coloured ill._  
_ To win me soon to hell, my female evil_  
_ Tempteth my better angel from my side,_  
_ And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,_  
_ Wooing his purity with her foul pride._  
_ And, whether that my angel may be turn’d fiend,_  
_ Suspect I may, but not directly tell,_  
_ But being both from me both to each friend,_  
_ I guess one angel in another’s hell._  
_ Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt_  
_ ‘Til my bad angel fire my good one out.”_

When Aziraphale finished the sonnet, he looked over to see William with his eyes closed, breathing evenly. For a second, he thought he might be asleep, until William spoke.

“Earlier, you asked if anything was the matter,” he said slowly.

“Yes, I remember.”

William opened his eyes. “I must confess, I told you an untruth. For tonight, I am rather filled with melancholy.”

Aziraphale paused. This was not usually a part of their routine. “Might I enquire as to why?”

Instead of answering outright, William sighed. He sat up, deliberately placing his wine glass on the table, next to Aziraphale’s. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“Melancholic?”

“No, I mean…” William seemed lost for words for a moment, and instead waved a hand at the book laying on Aziraphale’s lap. He seemed to indicate the sonnet that Aziraphale had just read. “Do you ever feel as though there are two spirits inside you, fighting for control?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Seeming to grow a little bolder, William sat up, now only a foot from Aziraphale. He kept talking. “I feel…I feel two different urges inside me. One of them, the ‘man right fair’, I suppose, is telling me that I should do what is right. What is normal. What everyone expects me to do. And the other one, the ‘ill-coloured woman’, she tells me to follow my heart. To do what I want, hang the consequences.” He was watching Aziraphale intently, scanning his face for any reaction.

Aziraphale swallowed, and ran his tongue over his lips. “Which one will you listen to?”

“I prefer the message of the wicked one.” William licked his lips as well, leaning a little further forward towards Aziraphale. His eyes flicked down to Aziraphale’s mouth, then back up to his eyes.

Aziraphale’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “And what is she telling you to do?”

In response, William leaned forward, closing the final few inches between them, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. He kissed him gently, and leaned back, waiting for a reaction.

Aziraphale may as well have been carved from stone, he was so still. He stared off into the distance, not breathing. His mind, however, was racing at a rate of knots. This was not how he had expected the evening to go, or even how he had expected William would answer the question. In his almost six millennia on Earth, nobody had ever kissed him before, and he did not know how to react. He had seen people kissing before, of course – it was hard to avoid, particularly when he stayed later at the Hundred Guineas – but had never engaged in the activity himself. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it had not been entirely unpleasant.

Should he have kissed William back? How did one go about kissing back? He understood tongues were involved somewhere in the process, but was not sure exactly how they came into play, as it were. What did one do with one’s hands?

Aziraphale had not even begun to consider the moral ramifications of kissing a mortal when he noticed William moving, and was brought back into his mortal body. He looked around to see that William had drawn back on the sofa, as far away from Aziraphale as possible. His face was shocked – no, scared – and he was shaking his head. “I am so, so sorry, Mr Fell,” he was stuttering, stumbling over the words. “I must have misread the situation, I can only apologise. Please…I beg of you, please do not call the po—”

That was all he was able to say before Aziraphale cut him off by surging forward and pressing his lips to William’s. Their noses bumped together, a little painfully, and Aziraphale pulled back abruptly. “Sorry,” he said.

A smile was beginning to grow on William’s face. “Shall we try that again?” He raised a hand to Aziraphale’s face and cupped his jaw, rubbing his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheek, watching his eyes closely. Then he tilted his head to the side, and leaned in slowly, taking his time. He paused, his hot breath ghosting over Aziraphale’s lips for a second. Then William closed his eyes and kissed him.

It was soft, was Aziraphale’s main impression of the kiss. There were a lot of sensations for Aziraphale to take in all at once, and he took his time cataloguing each of them in his mind. The feel of William’s soft lips, moving gently against his own. The smooth hand on his jaw, which eventually moved around to splay on his back. The smell of William’s eau de cologne, a deep, musky scent. The sound of the gentle, pleased hum in the back of William’s throat.

Some time later, he couldn’t tell if it was seconds, or minutes, or hours, William’s lips parted. His tongue slipped out and ran over Aziraphale’s lower lip, and Aziraphale’s breath hitched. William’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at Aziraphale, looking for permission.

A moment passed. They stared into each other’s eyes. Aziraphale had never looked at William’s eyes so closely before. There were flecks of gold amongst the brown that he hadn’t previously seen.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and parted his lips, leaning back into the kiss. William’s tongue ran over his lower lip again, then ventured into Aziraphale’s mouth. It felt…_heavenly_, Aziraphale thought. And after all, he should know.

Some more time passed, and he felt William draw back slowly. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open to see William watching him, cheeks beginning to flush, breathing heavily. He looked as though he was glowing from the inside out.

William gazed at Aziraphale adoringly, a smile playing on his lips. He licked his lips, as though trying to taste Aziraphale on them. When he spoke, his breath was short. “Have you ever kissed anyone before, Mr Fell?” he asked.

Aziraphale could feel his cheeks beginning to warm. “I have not. Was it obvious?”

William’s eyes sparkled. “A little. That is not to say that it was not a good kiss,” he added hastily, seeing Aziraphale’s cheeks redden. “But we do need to breathe occasionally.”

Right. Breathing. Aziraphale had been so caught up in the moment, he had clean forgotten that humans needed to breathe.

He took a deep breath, for good measure, and smiled back at William. “Noted,” he said. Then, suddenly feeling bashful, “Could we, ah…that is to say, would you be opposed to…?’

William’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “No need to ask, Mr Fell,” he said, adjusting his position on the sofa so that they were properly facing each other. Aziraphale shuffled around as well. Then William leaned forward again.

This time, Aziraphale was sure to kiss back.

When they eventually extricated themselves from each other, Aziraphale felt weightless. He was a cloud, flying without wings. He had to check, in fact, that he was using his feet to walk across the shop to let William out. Thankfully he was, which saved him from an awkward explanation.

They reached the door, and before Aziraphale could place his hand on the door handle, William put out a hand and stopped him. Aziraphale looked up to see William watching him, almost looking nervous. “I trust you will be at the Hundred Guineas tomorrow?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Absolutely,” he replied, wondering why William needed to ask. “I trust I will see you there?”

William’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and he smiled. “Of course,” he said, and placed a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Good night, Mr Fell,” he grinned.

“Good night, Mr Johnson.”

And then William was gone, into the night.

Aziraphale raised a hand to his own lips, tracing where William’s had just been. He smiled to himself, and locked the door. Then he floated across the shop and back onto the sofa, to process all that had just happened.

It would be an interesting night, that much was certain.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Some notes on the Hundred Guineas Club, from my limited research:  
-It was basically one of the few gay clubs in London in the late nineteenth century (that we know of, anyway)  
-So called because membership cost 100 guineas per year (about £19,037 today - or US$12,550)  
-(That's more money than I have had in my entire life)  
-Because of the cost, it was extremely exclusive  
-The staff (waiters, bartenders, rent boys) would dress in drag and adopt female personas  
-So did several of the patrons, which I tried to show in the chapter  
-It was popular amongst soldiers, who would often bring in lower-ranking officers with them  
-All staff were under strict instructions never to reject any advance from a guest (yikes)  
-The guests would mingle in the main bar until the lights were doused at 2am, when they would go to the bedrooms upstairs until they had to leave at 6am


End file.
